


Poetry in the Dreamery

by hecate_01



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber, Phantom of the Paradise (1974), The Phantom of the Opera (TV 1990)
Genre: Crossover, Fluff, Gen, merik being a little bitch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-13 19:41:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29283951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hecate_01/pseuds/hecate_01
Summary: Merik (ALW Erik), Cherik, and Winslow meet in the dreamery to discuss Latin poetry.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	Poetry in the Dreamery

**Author's Note:**

> this was in reply to this request, which was sent to my ask blog: 
> 
> "crossover where 3+ phantoms sit in a spooky room (or maybe the dreamery) and discuss latin poetry, yes this is an invitation to completely nerd out about latin poetry, bonus points if they accidentally summon something/someone"
> 
> clearly, a friend sent this in, considering they know about my being a classics major lmao. i translated this myself. enjoy!
> 
> if you'd like to check out my new blog and submit a request, go to: https://pleasemonsieuranothernote.tumblr.com/
> 
> Content Warning: None!

Winslow was racing against the clock. Too preoccupied with his ticking watch and the arduous task of protecting his voice box from the heavy rain to notice the inquisitive, bewildered stares of pedestrians, he pushed his way through. The golden streetlight and cold raindrops ricocheted off the cobblestone street, soaking his boots and illuminating his course.

Holding the black, leather-bound book against his chest, he bounded up the slick, grand staircase of the Palais Garnier. Flinging the front door open, he hurled himself inside, escaping the pitch-black storm clouds.

As Winslow caught his ragged breath, he admired the pristine, marble opulence of the Opera’s antechamber. He tentatively stepped forward, his boots clacking against the polished floor; the echoes reverberated and mingled with the muffled, distant whisper of Parisian rain in a hallowed hymn. However, this did little to quell his jumping nerves.

“Now, where were we supposed to meet again?” he said to himself.

“Winslow?” a gentle, familiar, disembodied voice called out.

Winslow jumped, his eyes darting around the room.

“Cherik? Is that you?”

“Yes, Winslow.”

“Where are you?”

“Walk to your left. I’ll let you in.”

Winslow marveled to see a large section of the decorous wall recede, revealing a dark, stone passageway. After a brief, wary, backward glance towards the main entrance, he hurried into the secret dungeon.

“You’re late,” a melodic voice chastised dryly.

“I’m sorry, Merik. I just–”

“I don’t care to hear your excuses.”

Merik waved his hand dismissively. Crossing his arms over his chest and leaning against the wall, he scoffed out an ‘honestly’.

“There’s no need for such a dismal attitude,” Cherik said. “Better late than never, I always say.”

Merik humphed, rolled his eyes, but said no more on the matter.

“And with that, let’s make our way downward,” Cherik announced as he pulled a torch from its iron sconce. “Follow me, please.”

Merik pushed himself forward and, casting Winslow a fleeting, disapproving glare, trailed after Cherik. Winslow narrowed his eyes in bemusement, and hurried to catch up to his companions.

The three Phantoms walked in a single file line down the winding, narrow flights of stairs. Despite Cherik’s role as the torch bearer and illuminating guide, it was nigh impossible to see anything in their vicinity, cloaked by that omnipresent darkness. Winslow braced his hand against the wall, taking slow, cautious steps down the slippery, stone stairs. Merik’s behests to hurry up did little to hasten his slugging pace. Better safe than sorry, he believed.

They passed through the cellars in silence, unnoticed. Eventually, they crossed the last step and were greeted by a winding body of black water.

“Hop into the boat, and we’ll be on our way,” Cherik instructed, gesturing to the moored gondola that bobbed under their shaky steps.

“Sounds good – OW!”

“Scoot over, Monsieur Leach,” Merik grunted, jabbing his elbow into Winslow’s side and wiggling in their shared seat.

“I can’t!”

“I’m afraid you’ll just have to endure it,” Cherik sighed as he began to paddle. “This boat was not meant to carry many passengers.”

“Will we sink?” Winslow asked.

“No, we’ll be fine. It’s not far along.”

Despite the burden of the two disgruntled passengers, the little gondola glided rather smoothly over the still, chthonic canals. Winslow marveled at the various Byzantine and Sumerian-esque props – the abandoned remnants of long-closed productions – which stood proud in their dilapidated glory, held buoyant by the night.

This silent respite was shaken when Merik’s burning, critical eyes gazed into Winslow’s cool, blue one.

“Did you complete the reading, Monsieur Leach?”

“Uh, huh?”

“You heard me,” he said as he adjusted his porcelain half-mask.

“I did but, honestly, I struggled with the poem.”

“What was the problem?” Cherik asked as he docked the boat.

“Well, I wasn’t able to retain it all that well.”

“Typical,” Merik scoffed, deftly stepping out onto dry land.

“Merik, be patient. He’s only started learning Latin,” Cherik said as he helped Winslow out of the boat. “He’s not going to be fluent after only a few weeks.”

“I’m tired of this chatter. I wish to begin immediately. I’ll meet you lot inside.”

With a curt, graceful swish of his jet-encrusted cloak, he marched up the steps to Cherik’s home. Winslow furtively leaned close to his friend’s ear.

“I don’t think he likes me all that much,” he whispered.

“He doesn’t hate you, Winslow. You must excuse him. He’s wary of new company, and very distrustful.”

“Yeah, I can tell.”

“But it’s nothing personal. He’s like that with almost everyone. Once he familiarizes himself with you, he’ll mellow out.”

“God, hopefully,” Winslow sighed as he and Cherik ascended the small flight of stairs leading to the little house.

“Try not to take what he says to heart. As we age, our patience and verbal filters shrivel up, not unlike our skin.”

“I heard that.”

“Oh, did you now?” Cherik chuckled as he and Winslow stepped into his living room, where Merik stood waiting. “You’ve retained your hearing, that’s good.”

“I don’t appreciate what you’re insinuating.”

“I don’t understand, Merik. I’m not insinuating anything.”

“What a relief. I was concerned I would have to have a talk with Monsieur Carrière regarding his little boy’s impudent manners.”

“Now, now, you have more pertinent things to concern yourself with other than my manners – investing in a good eye cream, for one.”

Winslow coughed into his fist, masking his giggles. Merik huffed, but neither shrunk from nor protested his host’s good-natured pat on his back.

“I’ve prepared some treats for us to enjoy,” Cherik explained as he picked up a picnic basket from the central table. “I hope you will enjoy them.”

“Nice place you have,” Winslow complimented as he glanced about, admiring the various instruments that littered the room. A messy stack of ink-stained, half-finished sheet music on the desk caught his eye.

“I ask that you not read that yet; I haven’t finished.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. But, you know, you should show it to us when you’re done. I’d love to hear it.”

“You’ll have to share your _Faust_ with me first, though,” Cherik said. “And you should present your _Don Juan Triumphant_ to us.”

“Perhaps, but I can’t make any promises. I don’t disclose my art on whims.”

“Understandable, but it would be fun to spend a day sharing our compositions. For now, let’s step into my dreamery.”

“Finally. We’ve stalled for long enough,” Merik huffed. “Come, Monsieur Leach.”

The trio walked side-by-side. They passed through a cold, dank cavern, before stepping out into lush, green light. The guests marveled at the product of Cherik’s pastoral, emerald dreams. With the underbrush crunching and crinkling beneath their feet, and the birds singing and the trees towering high above their heads, they traversed their way through the subterranean dreamscape.

“This is a rather impressive marvel.”

“Thank you, Merik. To say it was a challenge is an understatement.”

“I wonder if my Christine would enjoy a dreamery of her very own,” Merik mused, a soft smile gracing his lips as he glanced about. “She deserves to have her own magical corner of the universe to escape to after a long, hard day.”

“I can give you a copy of the blueprints.”

“That won’t be necessary. I want to personally tailor one unique to her dreams and desires.”

“Of course. Do let me know how it goes.”

Winslow closed his eye, absorbing himself in the euphonious song of the birds’ twitters, as they harmonized with his companions’ hushed chatter.

“How about this spot?” Cherik asked, pointing towards a little clearing in the midst of a circle of willow trees.

“It’s adequate,” Merik responded.

The three worked quickly to establish their place in Cherik’s dreamland; they spread the blanket, filled their plates with sweet and savory pastries, and poured their drinks. Opening their books, they sat on the blanket in a circle.

“I picked Horace’s Odes 1.22 for our reading today, as I believe it’s a poem about all of us,” Cherik explained, smiling. “I hope you enjoyed it. Let’s take some time to share our thoughts.”

“From what I managed to get out of it, it was good,” Winslow said. “But, like I said earlier, I struggled to grasp it.”

“We’ll help you out.”

“Did you read the poem aloud to yourself, Monsieur Leach?”

“Uh, no.”

“You need to get into the habit if you ever wish to improve your pronunciation and understanding of Latin metrical structure,” Merik criticized.

“My bad, it’s just – I – it doesn’t matter.”

“How about Merik and I do some reading? Will that make you feel better?”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“It’ll be alright, Winslow.”

“Back to a more pertinent discussion,” Merik interjected bluntly. “Your claim that this poem is about all of us is rather ironic.”

“In what way?” Cherik asked.

“Read the very first line: _‘Integer vitae scelerisque purus’_. Are any of us contenders for such a lofty title?”

“Wait, what does in–integer– that sentence mean?”

“Your pronunciation is hopeless. In Latin, the G’s are hard – guh –, not soft – juh,” Merik corrected.

“Right, my bad.”

“It means, ‘The whole of life and the pure of crime’, when translated literally,” Cherik explained. “It’s rather clunky, so think of it as, ‘Those with integrity and innocent of crime’.”

“That is too abstract of a translation; there are no ablatives in that sentence.”

“Sometimes it’s a necessary evil, Merik.”

“Thank you, that makes more sense,” Winslow said. “And I really don’t think any of us qualify for that.”

“Exactly. What lends us any air of integrity and purity? Definitely not our respective _modus operandi_.”

“It wasn’t that so much. Here, let me skip a few strophes down. This, I believe, is us in poetic form.”

Cherik cleared his throat and resuscitated the dead language with his thoughtful, gentle voice.

“ _Pone me pigris ubi nulla campis_

_arbor aestiva recreatur aura,_

_quod latus mundi nebulae malusque_

_Iuppiter urget;_

_Pone sub curru nimium propinqui_

_solis in terra domibus negata:_

_dulce ridentem Lalagen amabo,_

_dulce loquentem_.”

“Ah, I see,” Merik hummed, his softened eyes darting pensively across the page. “That is a particularly beautiful excerpt.”

“I’m partial to it as well. Would you do the honors of translating it for us?” Cherik asked him.

“Very well: Place me on sluggish steppes,

where no tree is revived by a summer breeze,

the side of the world which

evil Jupiter and clouds oppress;

Place me under the chariot

of the too close sun,

on land with homes having been denied:

I will love laughing Lalage sweetly.

I will love talking Lalage sweetly.”

“That’s really pretty. I like the hot and cold extremities,” Winslow observed.

“I understand now,” Merik said, casting a gentle smile towards the page. “From my very conception, I have been exiled to the rotten underbelly of the world, forced to claw my way for a scrap of anything. And yet, regardless of this, regardless of whatever vicissitude I will inevitably die on, I will always love her.”

“You put it very eloquently,” Cherik praised. “I have, on many occasions, found myself wandering through this very forest, singing of meam Christinem, as described in this strophe:

_Namque me silva lupus in Sabina,_

_dum meam canto Lalagen et ultra_

_terminum curis vagor expeditis,_

_fugit inermem._

In those blissful, perfect moments, I am able to forget my loathsome lot in life.”

“I actually managed to somewhat work through that part,” Winslow chimed in. “I really liked it.”

“Would you care to translate for us?” Cherik asked.

“I’ll do my best:

Certainly, a wolf in my Sabine forest, while I sing my Lalage and wander to the farthest boundary without care, fled unharmed.”

“Hm, you did better than I anticipated,” Merik said. “But ‘ _inermem_ ’ is in agreement with the singer, not the wolf. It is illogical for the wolf to be unharmed, given its nature as the lurking evil that threatens the pacifist poet.”

“Right, my bad.”

“You did very well,” Cherik praised with an encouraging smile. “That is not an easy part to translate.”

“Oh, thanks.”

“Keep at it, Winslow. You are getting better.”

“What exactly did you like about this strophe, Monsieur Leach?”

Winslow averted his gaze from Merik’s fiery, yet no less inquisitive eyes.

“Oh, uh, well, it goes back to the first strophe – right? – about how the innocent and those with integrity don’t need weapons to hurt others since, well, they are able to fend off danger with their love.”

“That is an interesting view; the question of ‘why does the wolf run away?’ is a topic of debate. What do we think?” Cherik asked.

“Perhaps, love makes one too intrepid, and intimidating to outsiders,” Merik pondered.

“Could very well be,” Cherik agreed, nodding his head. “I know my love for Christine has made me more brazen, and not always for the best.”

“The singer doesn’t particularly care,” Winslow added. “Maybe it’s the fact that he doesn’t have anything to lose is what drives the wolf away. What harm can you do to a man who has nothing to lose?”

“He has Lalage,” Merik pointed out. “At the end of the day, all we have to lose are our Lalages.”

The three exchanged glances. Winslow took a bite of a cherry turnover.

“Maybe,” Cherik began. “Love, in and of itself, is what makes a man innocent and honest, even if he may have a history of cruelty. Love gives him the strength to endure Hell, and the courage to wander through and sing in wolven woods. Can love not make a man of a monster?”

“Or a monster of a man,” Merik muttered.

“Think of it this way: when each of you is alone, in your darkest hour, out on the frozen steppes, or blinded by torrid, unforgiving light – do you feel your love makes you a monster?” Cherik asked.

“No,” Merik responded. “Christine’s being in my life has significantly improved it.”

“Phoenix has inspired me to create,” Winslow added. “Creation is a wonderful thing.”

“Exactly, which is why I’ve selected this poem. As I said, it’s about all of us.”

“It really is,” Winslow whispered breathlessly, smiling.

“You haven’t had a chance to read yet, Winslow,” Cherik observed. “How about you give it a go?”

“Oh, I don’t know…”

“If you’re worried about Merik needling you over your pronunciation, I’ll reign him in.”

“No, that’s not it…”

“Then why do you hesitate?” Merik asked, exasperated.

“It’s going to sound really stupid.”

“It probably will, but do impart anyway.”

“Merik!” Cherik scolded.

“It’s, uh, well, I’ve heard that Latin’s been used in Satanic rituals and things along those lines. What if I mispronounce so badly that I, uh, summon a demon or something?”

All eyes were on Winslow for a brief, quiet moment, before Merik bursted out into strident cackles.

“Is that what this is about?” he laughed, gasping for breath.

“Yes.”

“That has to be the most inane excuse I’ve ever heard!”

“Merik, manners,” Cherik chided.

“You can’t summon a demon; they don’t exist!”

“On, you don’t know the half of it–”

“Try me, Monsieur Leach. The only monsters here are us. Go on and read; we’ll correct your mispronunciations.”

“Well, alright. What should I read?”

“Why don’t you take a stab at the second strophe, which discusses various inhospitable locales?” Cherik suggested.

“Here goes nothing:

_sive per Syrtis iter aestuosas_

_sive facturus per inhospitalem_

_Caucasum vel quae loca fabulosus_

_lambit Hydaspes._ ”

“Your fears of reading aloud and summoning demons come at the expense of your abysmal pronunciation. C’s are hard, not soft. V’s are pronounced like W’s. You must allow yourself to make mistakes, or you’ll never improve,” Merik lectured.

“Oh, right. Thanks.”

“See, Winslow? Nothing happened,” Cherik reassured, gesturing vaguely to the lush, peaceful manufactured wilderness. “Mispronunciations and all, no sinister evil will ever encroach on this hallowed home of dreams.”

“Yeah, you’re righ–”

**_BANG!_ **

The melody of the birds choked up, died, and withered into a haunting miasma. The trio nervously looked about.

“What was that?” Winslow whispered.

“It’s probably… I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?! What do you mean you don’t know?!” Merik seethed, pushed himself up, and restlessly paced around the circle, searching between the trees for any sign or perpetrator. “This is your dreamery!”

“Nothing like this has happened before, so I don’t know.”

“Good evening, gentlemen.”

The three Phantoms exchanged a brief, wide-eyed glance. They stood to attention, and slowly turned to face the new arrival.

“It’s good to see you, Winslow. Friends of yours?”

“Swan!”

“Who– Wha – How did you get here?” Cherik interrogated warily.

The short producer flashed a rehearsed, toothy grin and stepped forward, his amused eyes glimmering with amiable cruelty.

“Winslow called me, of course.”

“Leach, you fool!” Merik cried, pulling a length of red rope from within his cloak. “It’s rather fortunate that I carry one of these at all times.”

“That won’t do much on me.”

“Do you want to take that chance?”

“Merik, not yet,” Cherik warned as he grabbed his enraged friend’s elbow, pulling him back.

“This is a charming little place,” Swan remarked, admiring the foliage of the kingdom of overgrown dreams. “Wouldn’t make for a good venue, however.”

“That’s not what I intended for it to be.”

“Oh, I understand. Of course I do.”

Swan bent down, selected a pasty from the basket, and nibbled at it.

“Gah!! Leave me alone and get out!!” Winslow screeched.

Any assault he intended against Swan was halted by a weary Cherik, who grabbed onto his forearm.

“Oh don’t worry, I will. I only wanted to answer the phone, see who needed me.”

“You aren’t needed,” Cherik said sternly.

“I see that now. Well, I’ll take my leave and see myself out.”

“That would be within your best interest,” Merik hissed, raising his lasso, earning a tight squeeze to his elbow from Cherik.

“I’ll be seeing you soon, Winslow.”

“You better hope you won’t! You–”

Swan was gone, vanished from plain sight, as if he had been reclaimed by the ivying green.

Although the birds resumed their song, and the pain of the oppressive, suffocating atmosphere was alleviated, the three men remained stiff and still, reeling from the strange encounter.

“Winslow?”

“Yes, Cherik?”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but it would be for the best if you never read Latin aloud ever again.”

“Fine by me.”


End file.
